I Will Remember You
by Sparkle Itamashii
Summary: What if Stiles and Derek really had spent the summer together? How much have the alphas taken?


Title: I Will Remember You

Author: Sparkle Itamashii

Notes: Originally posted to my Tumblr with gifset by ChasingShhadows here: kedreeva dot tumblr dot com/post/53394803909

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I Will Remember You

Summer Theories

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The thing is, he doesn't remember.

Which is confusing, because he _does_ remember, too. He remembers school letting out for the summer, and practicing lacrosse with Scott on the field because he wanted to play on the team for real in the fall. He remembers how Scott's mom pitched a fit and said he was still grounded for the summer and they didn't get to see each other much after that. He remembers the few texts he did get were about how hard it was to leave Allison alone, and how many times he had rolled his eyes even though he missed Scott terribly.

Except he doesn't _miss Scott terribly_.

He feels like someone _told_ him he should miss Scott terribly and it's dissonant and makes his skin crawl a little when he thinks too hard about it, and it's all because he just doesn't _remember_.

He doesn't remember that the summer started with Isaac leading them to Derek's apartment so that they could discuss the alpha pack that had descended on Beacon Hills. He doesn't remember the way Peter scoffed and snarled at them, telling them it was useless to even bother trying to hunt these alphas. They would get what they wanted, regardless of anything this stupid, greenhorn pack does. Stiles may have wanted to argue with him, but Peter is still terrifying and Stiles likes having skin.

He doesn't remember the long nights spent curled up on Derek's couch, shoulder to shoulder with Scott or Derek or Isaac as they tried to figure out where Boyd and Erica were being kept. He doesn't remember the smell of pancakes as Derek cooked breakfast in the small kitchen because they'd fallen asleep over maps and computer screens. He doesn't remember the brush of Derek's fingers over his as plates traded hands, or the way Derek's eyes brightened when Stiles mumbled _thank you_ in a voice full of sleep.

He doesn't remember the day he found the Alphas, or the frantic phone call to Derek from his bedroom. His dad probably remembers the shouting and the way Stiles dashed out of the house without any explanation, and the way he disappeared for two days with the lame excuse that he'd been at Scott's house. His dad doesn't want to press the issue, so he doesn't ask again even though he knows Melissa grounded Scott for forever after the police department fiasco. Stiles doesn't know to be grateful that his father is the best.

He should remember the claws slipping into his neck. He should remember the pain and the leech of his memories as they bled out of him. He doesn't.

He should remember waking up in his own bed, covered with too many blankets and with the wrong pillow under his head afterward. He should remember the call to Scott, who berated him for getting him in trouble with his mom when he was supposed to be grounded. He gives up, because Scott doesn't think it's strange, and there's no good way to explain that they don't remember things because he doesn't know what it is he doesn't remember.

So he goes on. He gets back to life even though there is a month of his life that doesn't quite fit, like a puzzle piece that's the wrong color even though it matches the shapes. He takes his time looking for Erica and Boyd, locked in his room alone, and sometimes Scott calls when his mom is out and sometimes Derek calls because they checked six places and didn't find a goddam thing. Stiles starts traveling out to Derek's loft because it's hard to keep his research away from his father when all of his research looks like he's going to try to break into every building in Beacon Hills.

Somewhere in the middle, Derek starts cooking for them, even though they don't know it's a repeat instead of a start. Stiles brings over recipes from his mother's cookbook, ones he scribbles down on notecards that he tries not to notice Derek storing in a little tin on the counter. Whatever, it tastes amazing and feels like home on nights when Stiles can practically feel himself growing apart from his father as he tries to keep him safe in the craziness that is werewolf life.

There's a day when Isaac is out with Scott and it's just Derek and Stiles in the loft, and Derek is cutting an apple at the counter and Stiles is sitting on the couch with a highlighter cap stuck in his mouth and a book of historical accounts open on his lap. He wishes he could pay attention to the words on the page but they keep sliding sideways as his eyes droop. He'd been up through the night with Scott, looking through recent town records and it's catching up with him hard as the day drags by.

Derek notices after a while, and he smears a glob of peanut butter on the edge of the plate beside the apple and wanders over to sit at Stiles' side. Stiles won't remember it later, but Derek nudges his arm and offers the apple, and Stiles just shakes his head. Derek just smirks at his stubbornness and sets the plate on the coffee table and slips the book from Stiles hands so Stiles can cap the highlighter. Derek doesn't ask permission, he just scoops Stiles up off the couch and carries him over to the bed. He pulls the covers out from under Stiles and draws them back up over him, and Stiles may not remember any of it, but he remembers the feel of it.

He remembers the feel of morning sunlight streaking in through the windows on the ceiling, and the scent of french toast and the feel of Scott pressed against one of his arms and Isaac against the other even though he'll never remember either of them coming home. He doesn't know how they ended up in the bed, but he can feel the empty space where Derek used to be and he manages to worm his way out from between the other two so he can join Derek in the kitchen. He presses coffee and takes out mugs and they silently assemble breakfast in bed for the two diligent betas still asleep until noon.

He remembers the feeling of ease with which they interact after that. He remembers the feel of hands sliding over his at every opportunity, even if he doesn't remember they belonged to Derek. He remembers the taste of toothpaste that isn't his own and the sound of an alarm clock that isn't a radio. He doesn't remember these things so much as _feel_ them, but it's there when nothing else is.

Maybe if he knew, he would be glad he doesn't remember the first fight they have. It's not about Erica or Boyd or alphas or even werewolves. It's not about the change of clothes Stiles starts leaving at the loft or the food he brings or the books he steals. It's the middle of the day and they're alone again and Stiles is rubbing his palm on the edge of the table because it itches and Derek just _snaps_. It's his scent and it's all over everything and he's putting it there on purpose, he must be. Derek swears to god that Stiles is doing it on purpose and Stiles can't even deny it because he's wearing one of Derek's too-big shirts after not-so-accidentally spilling soda on his own.

Maybe it's best he doesn't remember the three miserable days he spends back at his own house after that fight, locked in his room or underfoot everywhere his dad goes because he just misses the presence of someone else. Maybe it's best he doesn't remember the phone call Derek gives to apologize, even though Stiles beats him to it and promises he won't scent anything anymore. It's not best that he doesn't remember Derek's soft _no, please don't stop_.

There's still a month until school starts the first time Derek corners him in the loft, moments after Isaac closes the door to go visit Scott. The air still smells like dinner and Derek tastes faintly of vanilla ice cream when he kisses Stiles then, and Stiles thinks he can actually feel the relief flooding his veins as he curls his hands into the fabric of Derek's shirt. It's rough and needy and messy and neither of them stop until they can hardly breathe. Stiles has every right to remember that first kiss.

He doesn't.

He doesn't remember the graceful touches they share in plain sight of everyone, or the kisses stolen when they're alone. He doesn't remember the feel of Derek's hands sliding up his ribs or the lightning zing of pleasure when Derek nips along his collarbone or the low, throaty noise Derek hums into his skin when Stiles curls his fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. He doesn't remember the nights he spent curled around Derek - or vice versa - just sleeping with the scent of Derek wreathed all around him, warm and happy.

He should, but he doesn't, because the day comes where he begins to suspect something had happened. He begins to find clues that they had done this before, starting with a map that had highlights none of them put there, in a color of highlighter Stiles doesn't even own. It is tucked in the pages of a book Stiles finds crammed into the back of Derek's closet. He finds a folded card with scribbled notes being used as a bookmark in a geology textbook, with the name of a bank scrawled across it in Peter's handwriting.

He's alone the first night he spreads the clues out on the kitchen table at his house. He's been collecting them because he doesn't know what to do with them, doesn't know what he'd even start to tell the pack about them if he wanted to bring them up. Nothing matches up with what he knows. The bank had been abandoned for a long time. The marks on the map are tracking something, but there are no notes about what. He finds half a dozen scrawls in various books, bookmarks in a browser he rarely uses that lead to websites he's never seen.

He calls Derek, and they argue about whether or not it means anything. Stiles tells him he's coming over and Derek tells him it's two in the morning like that's ever been a valid argument. He shoves all of his proof into an envelop and grabs his keys and he's barely out the door before the canvas bag is over his head and his arms are pinned behind his back by clawed hands and darkness overtakes him entirely.

When he wakes it is to a headache that shoots down his spine and the sharp bite of twine around his wrists. He rolls onto his side and the ceiling tilts dangerously to one side and he guesses he probably has a concussion. A groan resonates through the dark room and he recognizes it. He calls Scott's name and he gets three answers in response and he thinks maybe that isn't right. That's when the alpha rounds the corner into the room and hauls him to his feet.

She hisses a warning at him as she drags him to his knees, not caring how hard he bangs them into the concrete. He can see another alpha across the hall, red eyes glowing as he talks quietly to- to Derek. Stiles calls out and it earns him a solid knock to the head that sends his vision swimming. He calls again because he knows what is coming, or he's guessed at least, and he just needs Derek to get up and fight.

But Derek's not moving and the alpha that was talking to him has gotten to his feet and begun to move over to Stiles. He pauses before the teen, head tipping to one side and the alpha holding him up tightens her grip on his neck. "Our little fox," the alpha says, and Stiles hates the smooth tone of his voice. That, he thinks, he'll remember. "Too crafty for your own good. I'm getting tired of cleaning up after you, Stiles. I'm getting tired of covering our tracks."

Stiles swallows and his mouth is so dry it doesn't do much. "How many times?" he asks. How many times have they wiped his memory? How much time have they taken from him? How often has he had to fight to find Erica and Boyd, how many times has he had to work up the courage to start something with Derek? What have they stolen that he'll never get back?

The alpha just shrugs, a languid roll of his shoulder, and glances back to Derek. "It won't matter soon. We'll take whatever we have to. We'll get what we want."

Even if he wouldn't remember why he'd felt it, Stiles would remember the feeling of his blood running cold under his skin at the insinuation. They would take it all away again and leave him back at square one and he panics even thinking about it. He knows he is panicking but he can't seem to stop the words stumbling from his lips.

"Please no," he groans, voice rough. "Please no, please don't, I can't- don't take- don't- we just wanted to find them, they're family, we just wanted- please don't..."

He knows he is babbling, and he hates himself for it, because he's never begged before, but his mind is his safe haven, it is the one thing he thought could never be taken from him and they are poised to strip his memories. It occurs to him then that they are poised to take more than that when he catches sight of Derek prone on the ground behind the alpha.

The alpha - Stiles vaguely thinks he recalls Peter calling him Deucalion - smiles like silk and venom, tapping his cane on the ground and Stiles realizes he's blind. "Oh, we won't take much. Just the past..." He shrugs, like it doesn't really matter. "Two months or so."

The pit drops out of Stiles' stomach. Deucalion would take the summer away from him, take Derek away from him at the same time as he took the rest of the pack. They'd finally just worked things out, found one another, become something more than friends. He couldn't lose it now; there had been too many chances, too many coincidences that brought them together; what if they couldn't take the same paths a second time? What if they lost what they worked to forge because they just couldn't find it again?

"No," he begs, fear writhing in his belly at the prospect. He couldn't lose Derek. Not now. "Please no, please don't take him- we just- you can't-"

"Oh, I think you'll find I can," Deucalion tells him, smiling. He hesitates, and his smile becomes a vicious grin. "Or rather, Kali can."

Stiles doesn't remember the way he screams when her claws slip beneath his skin. He doesn't remember the two days he spends on the floor of the bank beside Scott and Derek and Isaac as the alphas feed him false memories of a summer spent alone in his room. He doesn't remember not missing Scott because Scott has been beside him the entire time, but he will remember that someone has told him he does miss him.

And later, when Heather presses her lips to his, he will remember the feel of stubble against his chin but he won't remember why. When she touches him, he will remember the feel of a warm palm on his belly, smoothing across his skin, but he won't remember whose hand it was. When Scott says Derek's name the first time at school, Stiles will feel the soft flutter of happiness in his gut, even if he doesn't know where it comes from, because the alphas could take his memories but they couldn't touch his emotions.

And when he sees Derek for the first time since the wipe, he will see that Derek feels it too, and neither of them will be able to explain the warmth that floods through them. By the fourth time Stiles finds his hands inexplicably on Derek's skin without permission, he begins to suspect something. There are no slips of paper, no mismatched maps this time; only a feeling, stitched into the core of them both, that they were meant for more.

The thing is, he doesn't remember.

But he will.


End file.
